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Images via Cultizm
Holy smokes, this Hobo Travel Bag from Bleu de Chauffe makes me want to abandon my entire life, hop on a passing freight train, and ride the rails for the rest of my days like the noble migrant workers of yore. Of course, very few people (and even fewer actual hobos) can afford to drop 730 USD on a weekender bag, even if it is the most glorious weekender bag of them all: handmade in France out of high quality vegetable-tanned leather, in a colorway deliciously named “Cuba Libre”. A humble bindle stick it is not. Is there not something desperately romantic about becoming a drifter and moving from shanty town to shanty town? I’m trying to not mention the Cleveland Torso Murders, because I’m trying so hard to keep this post light, but whenever I think about old-timey drifters, my mind goes straight to the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run, the serial killer who beheaded and dismembered at least twelve people between 1935 and 1938. Many of the victims were castrated. The killer was never apprehended and never identified. But that was a long time ago and we’re keeping the tone light, so let’s focus on the bag and not a series of horrific murders that even legendary lawman Eliot Ness failed to solve. Okay, light tone, here we go. You know what’s super duper nice? Packing your favorite bag and jetting off for a weekend getaway at a quaint bed and breakfast somewhere in the countryside. Nothing eases the stress of modern life like a couple days of reclaimed wood, vintage wallpaper, and comforting room service. Egg-in-a-hole made with farm fresh eggs and homemade sourdough? Don’t mind if I do. Bonus points if the proprietors are an elderly married couple who refer to themselves as “innkeepers” and their guests as “honey”. Their enduring love is truly an inspiration to us all. Negative points if you happen to wander into the basement and find an antique gynecological examination table equipped with rusted shackles and an old wooden shelf filled with preserved fetuses in moldy Mason jars. I don’t know about you, but I usually take at least one star off of my TripAdvisor review when that happens to me -RB
Images via Idol
They say not all heroes wear capes, dear readers, but some superheroes do indeed wear this Bordeaux Field Cape from Boramy Viguier, because it is the attire of a hard-bodied demi-gawd sent to Earth to save us from the perils of crappy clothing. Never mind the tragic backstory in which a parent or loved one is brutally slain in an incident that proves ironically formational to his character; instead, focus on the hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of innocent civilians killed in his latest battle with his archnemesis, who is a dark mirror of him in almost every way. This adventure-ready cape features a drawstring hood and a well-placed patch pocket on the chest, which you can fill with various goodies, including, but not limited to, your wallet, Juul, and a bunch of opioids your doctor prescribed after a chuck of masonry landed on your car, crushing your leg, while you were trying to escape the aforementioned climactic battle. Now you’re cursed with an eerily idiosyncratic limp and an equally idiosyncratic gilded cane. I hope you have a doctorate in either particle physics or biochemistry, because the only ways to solve these problems involve constructing a death ray or developing a supervirus. Oh, and I hope you’re independently wealthy, because the payroll for armies of faceless henchman and the mortgage payments on mountaintop lairs don’t come cheap. You’ll also have to buy a (preferably hairless) cat, ideally a really lazy one, willing to lie in your lap getting stroked all day, watching as the people who displease you drop through trapdoors into pits of concentrated sulphuric acid or tanks full of hungry mako sharks. On a semi-related note, remember that unpleasant five (maybe ten) year period after Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery came out when everyone from television personalities to toll booth operators was referencing the movie? When your middle school science teacher tells a class of ten year olds to “Oh, behave” in his own uniquely horrific attempt at a British accent, you know you’re in for a rough semester. When that same teacher catches you alone in the bathroom and says “Do I make you horny, baby?” you know you’re in serious trouble. Well, enjoy having that creepy image linger in your mind. Stay safe, dear readers -RB
Images via Blue in Green
Prepare to forego rent and/or groceries this month, because this Luigi Coat from Atelier & Repairs is a damn near perfect garment and your closet requires its presence. This flaming hot jawn is made in the good ole US of A, from 100% “regenerated denim”, a combination of 50% Refibra™ (recycled cellulose fibers) and 50% recycled cotton from the Candiani Denim mill, making it sustainable as fuck. Obviously I mean sustainable for the Earth, not sustainable for your wallet, because it costs 625 USD. If you buy this shit, I’m pretty sure Mint.com just emails you the middle finger emoji. Now, if you thought for one second that I could write an entire post about a piece called a “Luigi Coat” and not make some irrelevant references to the Mario Bros. franchise, you don’t know me and you don’t know my blog. Without further ado, here comes the randomness. Although I’ve never tried sucking a bunch of ghosts into a modified household vacuum cleaner, I imagine this coat is what I’d wear if I did. It’s decidedly more lit than blue overalls, a pair of bigass white gloves, and a green sweater. Is it a sweater or sweatshirt? I have no worldly fucking clue. Not that I’m trying to malign the fashion sense of the great Luigi Mario, of course. Does it bother any of you that Luigi and Mario’s surname is actually Mario? That little tidbit was first introduced in the unambiguously awful 1993 live-action film, Super Mario Bros, but even venerable game creator Shigeru Miyamoto has since confirmed it as canon (kind of). Guess I’ll just add that to the ever-growing list of shit that I desperately wish weren’t true, but definitely is, right next to the current occupant of the White House and the fact that carbs are bad for you. Fucking carbs. Carbs are like that one “bad” friend you have as a teen. The one your mom hates because she smokes cigarettes, cuts class, and is a compulsive liar. Yeah, she might introduce you to some interesting indie folk bands and convince you to get a cool new haircut, but you definitely end up with trust issues and a drug problem by the time you go to college. Thanks a lot, Mia. Her name has to be Mia. Apologies to all the Mias out there. You’re not bad people. I know you didn’t mean to do what you did. Plus it’s nice that you’re helping The Mountain Goats get more fans -RB
6/26/2019
PUMA RS-X FD SNEAKERS & THE BITTER CURMUDGEON THAT DWELLS IN THE DEPTHS OF MY BRAIN
Images via Concepts
Hang ten, surfers of the information superhighway! Today we’re taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming of hyper expensive workwear and jackets that resemble kimonos to drool over these Puma RS-X FDs (available in the extravagantly named Fair Aqua/Ponderosa Pine colorway). Admittedly, I’m not much of a sneaker head, so I don’t really know what to look for in a pair of modern tennis shoes. That I still think of them as “tennis shoes” is likely a dead giveaway that I don’t spend much time skimming sneaker blogs or waiting in line outside of Undefeated for the latest drops. My last sneaker purchase was a pair of Vans SK8-HIs , because I like to dress as though, at the tender age of thirty-one, I might just up and learn kickflips, despite the fact that I haven’t successfully landed a trick (aside from the odd, poorly popped ollie) in upwards of a decade. Although the gentlemen over at Braille Skateboarding might disagree, I think I’m just too old for that shit. Every time I envision myself getting back on a board, in my mind’s ear, I hear the sound of all the tendons in my ankle ripping free from the bone and subsequently conclude that the entire notion is pure folly. When people say “That guy shreds!” I don’t want them to be referring to my ligaments. Indeed, I should probably just cop a pair of these Pumas that look like the floor of an expressionist painter’s studio and cease my fantasies of carving up the streets, before I endure some sort of life-changing injury. I’m sure there’s a joke juxtaposing the paint splatter effect with the urban colloquialism “drip” to be found somewhere in there, but I’m too lazy to go spelunking for that kind of humor today. As much as I strive to be au courant and conversant in the parlance of our times, I’m often overwhelmed by the misanthropic whims of the bitter curmudgeon that dwells in the depths of my brain like a crotchety old homunculus. His real name is Myron Curtis Bailey, but he goes by Jack for reasons I'll never understand. I fully acknowledge that this blog could be used as evidence to have me committed to a psychiatric ward against my will and yet I persist in publishing it. Or maybe Jack’s been publishing it all along. What a fucking plot twist. Take that M. Night -RB
Images via Snake Oil Provisions
What up, brosephs and brosephinas? If these Desperado Short Sleeve Camp Shirts (available in light blue and indigo) from Stevenson Overall Co. aren’t the most fire torso adornments you’ve seen in recent memory, I’ll be downright thunderstruck. Feel free to pop open a new tab and rock out to AC/DC’s timeless hit “Thunderstruck”, if it just got stuck in your head, because I know it just got stuck in mine. These shirts are inspired by 1950s bowling shirts and that speaks to me, as bowling is unironically my favorite sport. I’m a dedicated league bowler, an avid watcher of the PBA, and the proud owner of five bowling balls. My high school Phys. Ed. teacher used to joke that bowling wasn’t a real sport because you could do it with a beer in your hand, but he was a dumbass and a douchebag, so I ignored almost everything he said. Plus, you could play most sports with a beer in your hand; you’d just suck at them. Enough about that useless shitbag -- let’s get back to these shirts. The photos caught my eye when I noticed the ultra-cool dude from Snake Oil Provisions rocking a Seiko SRP 775 on his wrist (I’m currently rocking the same watch upon mine own wrist) and thought “Boy, does that cat have great fucking taste or what?” Then I patted myself on the back for being sartorially simpatico with such a snappy dresser. Once I was done congratulating myself, I resolved to get more tattoos in furtherance of my dream of becoming almost entirely unemployable. If I can’t be employed, then I don’t have to go to work. If I don’t have to go to work, then I’m free to do whatever I want all day. If I’m doing whatever I want all day, I can get really good at bowling. And if I get really good at bowling, I can become a professional bowler and let that sweet, sweet PBA money start flowing in. That’s unimpeachable logic, fam. The pieces fit together so tightly, yo can’t even slide a razor blade between them shits, Pyramids of Giza style. You better bury me with all my bowling balls, because I’m going to be throwing rocks in the afterlife, boi -RB
Images via Mutiny
Jumpin’ Jehoshphat, do I need me one of these Gymnasium Jackets from paa. When I was growing up in Jersey City (New Jersey, not Wisconsin), these jackets were commonly referred to as “flights”, despite only bearing a passing resemblance to actual flight jackets, such as the venerable MA-1 bomber jacket. This Paa joint costs a hefty 438 USD, so it’s a considerable upgrade from the one I bought at Morlees, up on Newark Ave., for around 50 bucks. I’m guessing at that price, given I was sixteen or seventeen years old when I made the purchase in question and I’ve done a considerable amount of memory destroying in the intervening decade plus. All normal stuff. Definitely nothing weird. No further questions. Back to paa. Paa (pronounced 'pah', if that was unclear) is an NY-based sportswear brand and pretty much everything they make is straight up flames. What do we do when we see things that are straight up flames? We covet them. And when it comes to paa, I’m one covetous motherfucker. Gimme all dem bucket hats, fam. Longtime readers of this blog will know that I have a strange relationship with bucket hats and might be interested to know that I still do not own one. Someday, bucket hats, we will be together. Wait, this post isn’t supposed to be about bucket hats. Did I get distracted and go on yet another tangential rant? I hate when that happens. I need to work on improving my focus. Meditation? Ginseng? Sobriety? Leave your suggestions in the comments. Also your credentials. I like to know who’s giving me the advice I’m going to summarily ignore. Gotta consider the source, ya feel me? Not that I don’t think all you strangers on the internet are trustworthy, but I believe in doing my due diligence. Ya boy is real responsible like that. Make me a copy of your house key. You won’t regret it -RB
Images via Fuga Fashion
Ayo fam, check this “SENSITIVE” Sweatshirt (available in black, blue, and khaki) from streetwear brand Fuga Fashion and get ready to hit the “Buy with PayPal” button like it insulted your mom or complimented the president. As the blurb on the Fuga Fashion store page says of this sweatshirt, “We guarantee your friends don't have this yet”, so cop one and refuse to tell your envious buddies and colleagues where you got it, until they bow down and worship you as the one true jawnz gawd. Set the trends. Make the tastes. Become the #influencer you were always meant to be. Recruit an over the hill rapper and launch a music festival. Scam your investors and bilk them out of thousands of their hard earned dollars. To be fair, I don’t know if all their dollars are hard earned. Seems like there could be some Daddy’s and/or Mommy’s money type shit going on with some of them. I mean, if you’re willing to part with tens of racks just to be part of some dumbass Coachella knockoff, you’re probably not Warren Buffett. The notable downside to this plan is the lack of sartorial variety allowed in prison, which is where you’ll more than likely end up if you follow my advice. I admittedly do not have your best interest at heart and bear you no fiduciary duty whatsoever. Do I look like I work for T. Rowe Price, bruh? You can’t see me right now, but, trust me, I don’t. I’m wearing a pink camp shirt and a backwards strapback right now. I’m dressed like a Silver Lake hipster daytripping it on the Venice boardwalk or the newest brand ambassador for some kitschy cool craft cocktail in a can company. I’m bout to cop some some ill jawnery from Fuga Fashion and start dressing like I listen to a lot of Scarlxrd, because I listen to a lot of Scarlxrd. That’s called truth in advertising, folks, and I’m pretty sure that was the point of this entire post. Or pxst. Shout to Scarlxrd -RB
Images via Superdenim
Open your wallets and let the money flow, fam, because these Ripstop New Yorker Pants from orSlow are the ideal covering for your justifiably self-doubt-provoking legs. I’m sorry. I don’t know what your legs look like. It’s unfair of me to be so presumptuous. I’m obviously just projecting my own insecurities onto you. I need to stop that. It’s unhealthy. Anyway, orSlow is one of my all-time favorite brands and I fuck heavily with this particular pair of pants. They cost 225 USD, but if you’re a real New Yorker, you’re probably already paying like twenty-two hundo per month to live in little more than a closet. It’s a cliché for a reason, dear reader. All major cities are fueled by the buoyant hopes and inevitable sorrows of their residents. Cities are like Audrey II, screaming “Feed me, Seymour!”, except instead of human flesh and blood, you feed them your disposable income and youth. Back to the pants: these things are perfect for sitting on your futon and smoking weed, while you play Xbox and bump Rap Caviar in a desperate attempt to block out the sounds of your roommate and his Tinder date making the beast with two backs in the adjoining room. The saddest part of this bleak tableau isn’t the profoundly uncomfortable sexual intercourse happening not ten feet from where you lay your head down to sleep, but that you’re wildly envious of your roommate for the mere fact that he’s making some sort of contact with another person, regardless of how fleeting or gross it may be. It’s at this point that you consider it lucky that your windows only open an inch or two, lest you be tempted to throw yourself out of one. It’s okay. You’ll experience the sweet peace of death eventually. You just have to be patient. Good things come to those who wait. Happy Monday, motherfuckers -RB
Images via Goodhood
Prepare to have your expectations defied, folks, because this Papillon Embroidered Cowboy Shirt from Japanese rebuild gurus Needles is, in fact, not a rebuilt item, but an intact, first-use garment. It’s made of 100% polyester twill and features mother of pearl buttons and plethora of contrast piping commensurate with its classic Western styling. The name “Papillon” derives from the pair of embroidered butterflies that adorn the chest (papillon means “butterfly” en français), not from the time it spent incarcerated on French Guyana’s infamous Devil’s Island. Don’t @ me if you don’t get that reference: I wrote it and I barely get it myself. Side note: why do prison islands seem to be equal parts terrifying and romantic? Alcatraz, New York in Escape from New York, Los Angeles in Escape from LA and also probably real life in the near future. Shout to Snake Plissken and California’s inevitable destruction by a combination of natural disasters and/or the ravages of man-made climate change. Shit’s going to go down like a Roland Emmerich movie. Which one? Who knows. No matter what, the outcome for the populace and the film it most closely resembles will be absolutely awful. Once the chaos starts, you’ll likely have a window of anarchy during which you’ll be able to loot hella jawnz, before martial law is declared and National Guardsman start shooting people in the streets just for vaping. If you find a Needles stockist, you might even be able to boost one of the above shirts. At least then you’ll be the sharpest dressed motherfucker in the FEMA camp. I smell sulphur. Do you smell sulphur? I really want to talk about how global warming is actually a byproduct of scientific experiments performed by the reptiloid extraterrestrials that inhabit the Earth’s hollow core, but that would probably make me sound a little bit crazy and I know y’all trust me to keep a level head -RB
Images via Kinfolk
Gird your loins and fortify your fannies, folks, because this Waist Bag from Nanamica is straight up unapologetic Dadcore at its finest. If we’re acquainted IRL, you’re most likely aware that I sport a fanny pack on the reg, without even the slightest hint of irony. I’m a modern man, with serious everyday carry (or EDC as all the cool internet guys call it) needs, hence my love for waist borne packs, particularly this Nanamica joint, which is made in Japan from 100% nylon. The best thing about it is the relatively short strap, preventing it from being converted into a crossbody, also known as the No, It’s Not A Fanny Pack LMAO WUT?! Bag. Miss me with that fashionista bullshit. I’m all about rocking saggy sacks upon my hips, because I keeps it real, dawg. How real, you ask? Don’t question me, imagined audience member, for I am the Alpha and Omega of the waist bag game. I looked, and behold, a pale fanny pack; and the dude who rocked it was a true G; and all of Instagram followed with him. What’s 160 USD in denarii? According to my research, probably like 3 denarii (or about 30-48 asses ROFL). Ancient currencies are hella lit. Put that shit in your Second Punic War and smoke it. Man, where’s this post supposed to go from here? I feel like I’m up my stream of consciousness without a paddle, bruh. Once you’ve touched on the Book of Revelations and The Hannibalic War, it’s pretty tough to circle back to chat about EDC and whatnot. You ever see the 2004 comedy Without a Paddle? I haven’t, but I'm running out of potential avenues to go down and random references to critically panned films is usually a solid solution to any and all writing problems. Hell yeah: reached my minimum word count without a single mention of the Game of Thrones series finale. Take that, cultural relevance -RB
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